


Stories Like This Can't Come True

by Devonwood, Rrrowr



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen, Slurs, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:32:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devonwood/pseuds/Devonwood, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rrrowr/pseuds/Rrrowr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joining the Warblers has been the best decision Blaine has ever made, but accepting himself as part of the team? That's going to take a little more work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stories Like This Can't Come True

Weeks ago, Blaine wasn't sure he'd ever find any place to fit in. New school, new surroundings, new people -- all of it was this fresh slate upon which Blaine could rewrite himself. No longer was he defined as Blaine Anderson, the queer. Blaine “Ass-derson,” the nancy boy. “Butt-fuck” Anderson, the freshman faggot. At Dalton, he could be anyone. He could gel his unruly hair, wear contacts, and walk with a confidence that was face-value only. He could study hard, make new friends, and avoid getting shoved into lockers after school. He couldn’t stop being gay, though; he’d tried before without success.

Blaine auditions for the Warblers, Dalton’s prestigious all-male acappella group, on a whim. His execution is faltering at best -- a tentative rendition that's certainly not his best performance -- but the Warblers welcome him in as one of their own after only a few moments of deliberation. If they notice how skittish he gets sometimes in large groups of people, they don’t comment on it, and Blaine is grateful that they're willing to put his voice on the edge of the group where he can hide even if it’s not where he'd like to be.

It's hard to believe that he's an actual member of the Warblers. The Warblers are insanely popular for a group of boy singers in an all-boys school, to the point that Blaine is astonished and kind of alarmed by the amount of notoriety he gains just from swaying in the background of their numbers. He's a junior member -- barely anyone worth looking at -- and still struggling with figuring out how this whole acappella thing works, but he's a part of something that he hadn't expected. It feels good, if a little nerve-wracking, to be part of a group for once -- especially a group where no one judges him for his sexuality (or if they do, they at least do it out of sight).

*

It's October and the trees are shedding their leaves in preparation for winter. Even Dmitri, the canary entrusted to Blaine's care in a bizarre and seemingly innocent form of hazing, is molting. Sectionals are a looming threat for the Warblers, so everyone is busy making suggestions for song choices and quietly practicing their auditions for the competition solo. However, the Warblers whisper among themselves about the unlikelihood of getting a solo against senior member Wes. The auditions are just a thinly veiled charade because everyone already knows that Wes will be singing all of the solos. 

Wes, they say, is already marked for success. Literally, Blaine supposes, considering that Wes has the one thing that no other Warbler has: wings. Though Blaine thought they were props when he first saw them, he's seen the tiny wings twitch and flap of their own accord enough times to verify their actuality. He keeps trying to work the “So, you have wings?” question into conversations with Wes but Wes just smirks and directs the conversation down a different route. 

Blaine spends the first few months of school expecting Wes to take crap for having them but the other students treat Wes with respect -- reverence, and perhaps a little amusement. Accordingly, Wes has a sort of authoritative demeanor. Though he’s not officially in charge of the Warblers, per se, Blaine is pretty sure that Wes has the final say in all matters. If Wes wants the Warblers to sing golden oldies for the semester, they do that. If he wants them to start doing performances in the middle of the school day as a surprise to the rest of Dalton, the Warblers will do that, too. Blaine doesn’t think they’ll start doing that any time soon, though. Wes once made a PowerPoint presentation explaining the many ways in which impromptu public performances could go wrong. Still, Blaine can't help but wonder how much of this has to do with his natural leadership and how much it has to do with the wings.

The atmosphere inside the practice hall is rampant with nervous excitement one chilly afternoon when Blaine is running a few minutes late, his English teacher not understanding that the council would reprimand him severely for tardiness. He slips in the back of the room and hovers on the edge of the group, raising an apologetic hand to Wes, who is standing beside the council desk with a look of optimism. All of the members are murmuring among themselves, speaking loud enough for Blaine to catch snatches of conversation and figure out what's going on: Wes is not going to be auditioning for any competition solos this year.

"Doesn't Wes sing all the solos?" he whispers to Trent, the Warbler at his side.

“He's giving up his wings,” Trent says in a hushed whisper, as though it is some kind of secret. “No one knows why but it also means that the rest of us will have a shot at them!”

“His wings?” Blaine asks, confused. “What do the wings have to do with the solos?”

“Only the Warbler who leads us through the competition season gets the wings,” Trent says with an eyeroll, as though Blaine should know this already -- which he probably should, but the Dalton Academy Warbler Rulebook is about seven hundred pages long. Blaine lost interest somewhere around Article Twenty, Section Eight.

“I always assumed they were some sort of birth defect,” Blaine mumbles under his breath but Trent doesn’t hear him. He’s too busy talking to Jeff about the pros and cons of using an audition song from the seventies.

The gavel is rapped sharply a few times from the front of the room and the Warblers snap to silent attention. The council president sets it gently back on the desk and gestures for Wes to continue. Wings lifting a little, Wes smiles lightly at him and clasps his hands in front of him. He says, "Gentlemen, I understand your excitement about this prospect but leading the Warblers is about more than getting wings and standing in the spotlight. It's about gathering our voices into one single, solitary sound, and using that sound to hopefully achieve victory. These wings are a sign of your loyalty to the Warblers, as well as a symbol of our support for you. It is not a responsibility to take lightly or half-heartedly but I have no doubt that one of you is worth it.

“Auditions will be held two weeks from today,” he adds, "and I hope to see all of your names on the sign-up sheet." He looks around at all of the Warblers in turn as he says this before the council moves forward with a discussion on the merits of adding a third bass harmony to their arrangement of “Say My Name.”

Blaine tries hard to pay attention to the rest of the meeting but he drifts a little, caught up in the idea of being in the spotlight as the debate gets tossed around the room. He’s never been in the spotlight for something positive before, like leading a group to Nationals or singing his heart out on stage. Every time he’s been singled out before, it’s been the result of an offensive slur shouted down the hallway at his retreating back and teachers not doing anything to stop it because he _is_ all of those awful things that others yell at him. Blaine thinks he would like this, like leading the group, but mostly he thinks about being wanted and being loved. Being a part of something bigger than himself and trusting the group to take care of him. Before he knows it, he's stirred by the rest of the Warblers gathering their book bags and moving on, and he hurries to do the same, joining in on a conversation about the new arrangement to make it seem like he’d been paying attention.

Wes calls him back, however, and Blaine can feel his face flush as he tries to think up various excuses for his inattention. "I'd like to talk to you for a moment, if you don't mind,” Wes says, voice in full Warbler-mode.

Blaine is sure he’s about to get reprimanded. The couple of inches or so that Wes has on Blaine don’t seem like much when they're standing but when Wes tilts his head down to consider Blaine from under his brows, it feels deeply significant and sort of terrifying. When Wes puts his hand on Blaine's shoulder to give it a firm squeeze, Blaine's certainty about his reprimand settles deeper in his gut.

"I wanted to know if you were thinking about auditioning for lead," Wes says, and that throws Blaine for a bit of a loop. His eyes blink open wide in surprise but he quickly schools his expression into one of blank neutrality. His mind is going a mile a minute, and a thousand thoughts -- some true, some not -- threaten to leak out over his tongue.

Adjusting the strap of his messenger bag higher onto his shoulder, he decides to speak honestly. "I thought about it but I don't know. I mean, there are so many good singers in the Warblers already. There's no way that I'd be able to compete with them."

"Blaine," Wes cuts in. Blaine snaps his mouth closed and blushes furiously, but Wes just shakes his head with an expression akin to amusement. He has both hands on Blaine's shoulders now, fingertips squeezing gently in what Blaine assumes is supposed to be a reassuring gesture. If it is, it’s working. "I'm glad to hear that you've considered it. I really think it would be good for you because honestly, you don't _really_ seem that happy being in the background."

Blaine opens his mouth to protest because he knows what the Warblers are like. He knows about how they favor the group over the individual. While no Warbler would be faulted for wanting the solo or for wanting to shine in the spotlight, if that want became detrimental to the group, there wouldn't be any hesitancy in cutting a weak link from the chain. Blaine knows that the Warblers value every member of their team for their contribution toward making a single voice, and he can't help but feel guilty that the observation Wes has made of him is entirely true. 

He shuts his mouth and sighs, resigned. “I won’t lie to you. Singing lead would mean the world to me. However, if I’m best suited for the harmony vocals, I’m not going to jeopardize the group by fighting for a position I don’t deserve.”

The way a smile splits Wes' face is completely unexpected. "That's a very mature opinion for someone who's only been in the Warblers for a couple of months." 

Blaine shrugs, not sure if Wes’ comment is derisive or complimentary. "Mature or not, there are members that have been here longer than me. They'd have a better chance of leading the Warblers."

“If I was going to pick the lead singer based on seniority alone, I wouldn’t need to audition for a replacement,” Wes says with a hint of some bizarre expression on his face, and Blaine doesn’t know what to make of it. Especially since his comment makes no sense because Wes isn’t the only senior member of the group. Squeezing Blaine's shoulder one more time, he continues, "Think some more about auditioning, Blaine.“

With that, Wes releases his shoulder and Blaine knows he is being dismissed. He nods his head once and turns to leave.

“Oh, and Blaine,” Wes calls, and Blaine turns around to look at him again. “Sing something good.”

*

When he leaves the senior commons after that meeting, Blaine doesn't think that he's going to audition. He thinks that he's going to bury himself in his homework and ignore the nagging voice inside his head while he cleans out Dmitri's cage and refills his food dish. That works well enough for the next ten days -- his history grade has never been higher and he actually managed to conjugate a list of vocab words in Spanish that didn’t have Senora Ramiz wincing at his awful pronunciation.

Eventually, though, he has to think about auditioning. The list on the rehearsal room door keeps getting longer and longer, and with each name added, Blaine can feel his chances diminishing. He knows he has a good voice; it’s not a question of whether or not Blaine is talented. He wouldn’t be in the Warblers if he wasn’t able to carry a tune. Blaine just doesn’t know if his voice is good _enough_.

Blaine can’t stop staring at the sign-up sheet during the last rehearsal before auditions take place, and he fumbles a couple of dance moves in his preoccupied state. Luckily, he’s all the way in the back row so the only person who seems to notice is Nick, and that’s only because Blaine accidentally steps on his foot once or twice. At the end of practice, Blaine hangs back in the rehearsal room, letting the rest of the Warblers exit as they chatter happily about the upcoming auditions. Blaine’s stomach is in a knot. He wants to sign up, wants to _so badly_ , but something inside is keeping him from pressing pen to paper.

Someone coughs gently behind Blaine and he doesn’t have to turn around to know that the hand now gripping his shoulder belongs to Wes. Blaine sighs, shoulders slumping as he continues looking at the paper. “Wes, can I ask you a question?”

“Of course, Warbler Blaine,” Wes replies amenably, and though Blaine can’t see it, he can hear the gentle smile in Wes’ voice.

"Your wings," he starts. It feels weird to have mentioned them, but Wes doesn’t seem offended by it, so Blaine feels compelled to keep moving forward. His throat scratches like sandpaper and he’s sure that he’s making a fool out of himself in front of the person who will be judging his audition if, in fact, he decides to write his name on the list at all. “Well, they’re yours,” he adds, and Wes just nods at him to continue. “Why give them up? I mean, you still have a year left at Dalton. Why not wait until you’re a senior?”

"Leading the Warblers has been the most important thing in my life for these past few years," Wes explains, "but I’ve found a new purpose and it means giving up my time in the spotlight. I think it would be better to find someone this year, anyway. That way, I can take time to help him adjust to his new role."

Blaine goes over the names on the list -- all names with which he's familiar, all names of Warblers who are very talented in their own right. He grips the pen in his hand tightly, waiting for some sign that this is the right moment. He’s still so unsure.

"Is being lead really so tough?" Blaine asks. He turns, tearing his eyes away from the sign-up sheet and letting his hand fall limply to his side, pen dangling uselessly between his fingers.

Wes is standing with his hands folded behind his back. The expression on his face is serene, perhaps the slightest bit amused, while still being entirely sympathetic in a way that Blaine thinks should feel condescending but it doesn’t. Blaine still doesn't understand why he's having such an issue just signing up. It is just an audition but somehow knowing how much importance others place on the position makes him want to hesitate.

“It _is_ a responsibility, Blaine,” Wes says.

“Is that why only the lead Warbler has wings?”

“No,” Wes answers, his expression serious. “The Warblers’ lead singer having wings has been a tradition ever since 1927, when the lead Warbler was able to fly out of the way of a horrific plane crash during a performance of ‘Welcome Home, Lucky Lindy’ on the tarmac, thus saving the Warblers from certain defeat at Regionals.”

Blaine’s expression must be priceless because Wes actually laughs then, a laugh that goes all the way through his body and makes his wings ruffle.

“I’m kidding, Blaine.” he says with a grin and Blaine blushes a little with embarrassment though he can’t help chuckling along. “The lead Warbler has always had wings, ever since the founding of the school back in 1867.”

“And no one thought that was weird?” Blaine can’t stop himself from asking, fully aware that he sounds a little petulant. “No one got burned at the stake for witchcraft or something?”

“How should I know, Blaine?” Wes asks, eyes twinkling. “I wasn’t there. As far as I know, Dalton’s no harassment policy has always been strictly enforced, even in the most unusual of cases. The responsibility of leading the Warblers weighs out over a little physical enhancement.”

"Responsibility, right," Blaine intones, starting to look away.

"Blaine, look at me," Wes says, gesturing to himself. Blaine can see the white flickering around his shoulders as his feathers splay to accommodate his movement before settling again. "Why are you so nervous about auditioning?” Wes turns so that the full arching curves of his wings can be seen along the slope of his back. "It’s not just about responsibility and toughness, is it?"

“No,” Blaine admits, and it feels good to get that one simple word off of his chest. “Being a part of the Warblers -- finally having friends -- it's been so wonderful, and I really don’t want to screw up the good thing I have going here. I don’t want to get upset because I got turned down for a solo and sway bitterly in the back of the group as I mess up the dynamic.

“More than that, though,” he adds, shuffling his feet a little, “I don’t feel like I’m good enough to lead the Warblers. You can lead the group without batting an eye, which is exactly what they need, and I'm just this new guy, you know? I barely know how the Warblers work. Hell, I haven't even finished reading the Handbook!" He laughs at himself. "Look at me, too, Wes! I'm talking like I'm going to get it already and stressing out over responsibilities I don't know I'm going to get. It's stupid, isn't it? I don’t know what I’m looking to get out of it, exactly, or why I’m making such a big deal out of everything.”

“What you’re looking for,” Wes says gently, “is courage. You’re looking for safety and belonging but you’re mostly looking for the courage within yourself. I don’t know if this position can give you all of that.” Wes frowns, seemingly disquieted over the idea that Blaine might be unhappy among the Warblers no matter the position, and Blaine’s eyes flicker back to the sign-up sheet that’s still hanging ominously on the wall. “Some of that you have to discover it on your own.”

Blaine opens his mouth to say something, though he’s not sure what, but Wes holds up his hand and continues, “I came to Dalton as an outsider, just like you -- scared, alone, and desperate for help but afraid to ask for it. Being with the Warblers has taught me a lot but mostly it's taught me about myself. _If_ you get chosen," he stresses, "no one will expect you to be perfect. I certainly wasn't. But don't you think it’s time you got the chance to learn?”

Blaine nods, throat growing a little tight at the need that threads through him. Something about what Wes is saying stirs him. While being a member of the Warblers has given him status and attention from the other students at Dalton, lingering in the back of the group and shuffling along with everyone else hasn't given him the sense of value that he feels like Wes is talking about. He's a part of the Warblers -- he knows and understands this -- but mere tolerance isn't enough to shove away all the misery he remembers from public school. To have that moment that Wes talks about -- one in which people are willing to accept him for who he is and judge him for his actions alone...

He must make some noise at the idea because Wes' expression changes into one of acknowledgement and warmth. He waits in silence, though, for Blaine to whisper, "I want that," in a strained voice.

Blaine signs his name on the sheet. It feels like the first step forward he's taken on his own since walking into Dalton.

*

It's not his first audition but they don’t get any easier to bear over time -- no matter how frequently he stands before a panel of judges. After talking with Wes, Blaine's still jittery and pacing outside of the senior commons. The Warblers have been meeting for an hour each evening to go through auditions throughout the week, and Blaine is waiting with the other four Warblers that are scheduled to perform today. The rest of the club is within the senior commons, playing audience to the solos, and just knowing that they're there to critique him is enough to keep him restless and on edge.

Each audition takes about ten minutes -- around four for the audition itself with six minutes left over for a quick discussion among the Warblers regarding the performance. Blaine can hear the others singing, voices muffled through the thick door -- each one rich and strong in its own, distinctive way -- and he itches to peek inside so he can see how everyone is reacting. He waits for long, long minutes as the other boys go into the rehearsal space ahead of him, one by one, and finally the third boy goes. They wish each other luck and shake hands as Wes opens the doors to call in the next applicant. 

Blaine sags down into one of the chairs, prepared to breathe his way through these last, tortuous minutes, but then he hears the song lightheartedly float through the door. The quiet beat, the edge of hope, and the bouncing notes tiptoeing through each verse are all immediately recognizable because it’s the song that Blaine's been running through his head since this morning. 

"No." The denial is barely a whisper but it sinks into his bones, wiping away all excess energy and channeling it into a focused panic. 

He’d picked _Fireflies_ because it’s Top 40, something the Warblers are used to performing and would be familiar with. It’s perfect for their sound. The background vocals could take on the fanciful notes of the harmonies and the vocal percussionists would have a field day with the drum beats. It wasn’t quite perfect for his voice, per se, but Blaine transposed the melody down a couple of keys and it would fit well enough to work for the rest of the group. It fit the whole group, which Blaine hoped would improve his chances.

Now, though, the person before him is singing the song in its natural key, voice floating over the higher notes and lightly touching down upon the melody as though it’s an actual firefly. He can’t remember who’s actually singing -- Jeff? Trent? Blaine can’t focus but his mind scatters and shifts into overdrive. He needs a new song. He needs a _different_ song and he needs it _now_. There's no way he's going to audition right after someone else performs the same routine. It didn’t work in _Bring It On_ and it wouldn’t work here.

His fingers scramble over the iPod’s touchscreen, ear bud in one ear, and he skips over all of his most-played songs. He barely listens to the first few notes of each song before moving onto the next. He's acutely aware of time slipping away and none of the songs that turn up are good, are right, are perfect. He shoves the iPod away as the third audition comes to a close and hides it while he waits out those last few minutes of silence.

He's angry and scared at the same time. He goes to the door, thinking maybe he'll tell the council that he won't be auditioning after all, but the thought of giving up chafes at his sensibilities. He walks away from the door, strides halfway down the hallway, and turns on his heel to look back to where he came from. The Warblers are still talking behind those doors, preparing themselves to listen to the last audition, and he's got another two minutes to get himself together.

It isn't easy to still his nerves. Blaine looks down at his feet, away from the door, and closes his eyes as he shifts his weight from foot to foot. He lays a hand over his blazer buttons to focus on his breathing, determined to make it slow and steady, but his breath is still shaking when he hears the doors open. When he opens his eyes again, he does his best to project the level of confidence he wants, but he can tell from the way Wes looks at him from the doorway that he hasn't had much success.

"Blaine," Wes calls. Blaine straightens, mind carefully blank. Wes is standing to the side of the entrance, wings just visible behind his arm, and he beckons to Blaine with an open palm. "Whenever you're ready."

His first few steps are tentative, sounding too loud in the empty hallway, and he squares his shoulders as he takes them, filled with a sudden determination. His mind remains absolutely silent as he pauses in the doorway by Wes and takes a fortifying breath. It isn't until he's standing in front of the council's table, waiting for Wes to take his seat off to the side near Dmitri, that he's saved by the bird's cheerful chirping.

Dmitri flitting about on his perch reminds Blaine of a song he used to listen to during his Eurythmics phase in freshman year. _I look up to the little bird, that glides across the sky. I wish that I could be that bird, and fly away from here._ It’s possibly a little heavy-handed, given the birdlike nature of the singing group, but the lyrics resonate strongly with Blaine. It’s also the only song he’s run across that he knows sixteen bars from that will show off his vocal talent. He has to transpose this one down a few keys, too, but the style fits his voice better than he could ever hope to mimic with Owl City.

“Hello, Warblers,” Blaine says, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to calm his shaking hands. _Courage, Blaine_. “My name is Blaine Anderson, and I will be performing the song _Little Birds_ by Annie Lennox.”

Blaine sees Thad’s eyes widen and he doesn’t quite know how to take that gesture but Wes nods his head, so Blaine hums his starting note and begins.

Blaine comes alive when he sings, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders as he sings about defying gravity and laying his burdens down. He truly shines when he performs, he knows that, and he can’t stop the grin from crossing his face as he does a little spin and adds a couple of dance moves, no doubt shaking the hip-swaying Warblers to their core. _Little Birds_ \-- like so many of Lennox's songs -- has an energy to it that Blaine loves to utilize. He barely realizes how his step has a greater bounce to it or how his voice feels more powerful than it ever has during his previous performances with the Warblers. 

It feels good to to be singing proudly and fearlessly at last, but when the song ends and Blaine’s left with only his heavy breathing breaking the silence, reality crashes back down on him like an anvil. The Warblers take a moment before clapping politely and Blaine searches for hints in the faces of the council but he can’t read their stony expressions. His stomach feels like it’s plummeting to his toes.

Blaine leaves the senior commons as quickly as he can, cautious about appearing like he's running away yet unable to deny to himself that it's exactly what he's doing. He barely mumbles out a ‘thank you’ to the Warblers council before he leaves the room, mind already racing through every note and step of his audition.

He thinks he did as well as could be expected after switching _Fireflies_ for _Little Birds_ at the last minute, but he knows he went sharp during the second chorus and that his riff on the final note wasn't as great as what he normally belts out in the car. He finds an abandoned couch in the common room and continues nitpicking over every inch of his performance, singing certain bars under his breath just to prove that he can do them _now_ and therefore probably sang them correctly when in front of the council. It won’t help him retroactively but it makes some part of him feel better even as the certainty that his audition went horribly sinks in.

He's still sitting there as the Warblers break from deliberation. He smiles his way through handshakes and compliments on his audition and thanks everyone that wishes him luck. None of them are on the council, though, so he doesn't let himself begin to hope. Soon, everyone has departed and Blaine is left standing in an empty hall again with his back to the common room. Blaine doesn’t notice when Wes walks up behind him and jumps a little when he clears his throat behind his shoulder.

Wes' expression gives nothing away when Blaine turns to look at him and Blaine's hopes crash further. There's no sense is putting off the inevitable, he supposes. He asks, “Did you come to deliver the bad news?” 

“For the record, I can’t talk about how your audition went,” Wes says simply, raising his eyebrows, “but between you and me?” Wes smiles and slaps a hand onto Blaine's shoulder, giving it a meaningful squeeze. "You did well," he says, and immediately Blaine feels like the tension’s seeping out of his body. The sheer relief he feels hearing those words is enough to make his whole body tingle, and he shivers, rolling his shoulders as Wes pulls back. “Get some sleep, Blaine,” Wes tells him before starting to move past him. “The new soloist will be announced tomorrow.”

Blaine begins the long walk back to his dorm room. Without the audition to weigh down his thoughts, he's free to consider the history homework he needs to finish before Friday and the English essay that he’s neglected to start. He can feel himself drag on slower and slower, each leg feeling like a lead weight as he places one foot in front of the other up the stairs. He hadn’t realized he was so tired before but he supposes that the stress of this week is probably just catching up with him.

Blaine just barely makes it to his room before an overwhelming sense of tiredness floods over him and his head dully throbs his pulse against his temples. He thinks for a fleeting moment about taking an aspirin but ultimately ends up crashing on his bed, fully clothed. 

He's tired -- more tired than he ever remembers being in the wake of an audition -- but peaceful sleep eludes him despite all of his tossing and turning. He drifts in and out of sleep throughout the night, restless, miserable, and mindless of the sweat pooling in his hair or the sheets tangling around his legs. His entire body is tense and strained, his head feels like it's throbbing and splitting down the back, and every time he thinks he might be able to doze off, a muscle spasms hard enough to hurt. He gives up trying to get back to sleep thirty minutes before his alarm is set to go off and presses his face into his pillow with a frustrated groan.

Resigned to a terrible morning to follow a terrible night, Blaine sits up and swings his legs over the bed, rubbing his face as he tries to roll the kinks out of his shoulders. His whole body is exhausted and haggard and he feels beaten down by his own weariness. He slouches to rest his elbows on his knees, looking around for his messenger bag so he can dig out some painkillers. As he reaches under the collar of his wrinkled uniform to work out the tension in his muscles, his hand collides with something soft and feathery. He swears that he stops breathing for just a second.

“You’re kidding me,” Blaine whispers. He twists to look over his shoulder at his back and when he spots the faintest glimmer of fluttering white, his heart practically flies out of his chest. “You’re kidding me!”

Blaine dives for the full-length mirror fixed to the door of his wardrobe and turns around, looking for the first time at two fluffy white wings nestled against the backdrop of skin and shredded cloth. They’ve ripped two holes in Blaine’s uniform shirt but clothing damage is the furthest thing from his mind as the wings twitch and spasm rapidly on their own. He tries to flap them or something, anything, but all he succeeds in doing is raising his shoulders and scrunching his eyebrows. Blaine tries to ease the uniform shirt off of his shoulders gently, but he can’t get his wings to stay still long enough to work them back through the holes. He maneuvers his upper body to work them through but his wings -- and it’s so weird, thinking of them as “his” wings -- twitch uselessly out of the way.

When he finally has them free, he turns his back to the mirror and twists around to look at them properly. It's easier to see their definition without them blending into his shirt. Now Blaine can tell that they're smaller than Wes’ but as he looks at them closely, the feathers splay like they're preening of their own volition. Experimentally, he crosses his arms tightly in front of him, and the wings hitch upward like little arrows. When he spreads his arms to either side, the wings mimic the movement, and he feels as though he's not controlling them himself because he doesn't have to think about them before they move. It’s like breathing or the beating of his heart -- already an undeniable and inexplicable part of him.

He twists his arm behind his back to feel the wings again, purposefully this time, and just manages to scratch his nails against the base of one. A tingling feeling splays out all over his body with such a ferocity that his knees almost buckle. 

_Interesting,_ he thinks.

Blaine thinks he knows what the wings means. There's really only one explanation for it: that he got the lead, that he'd been chosen, but he can't know for sure until he sees Wes. Pulling on a fresh shirt, despite forgoing his blazer, makes the wings complain. They jerk uncomfortably under the cloth until Blaine's whole back is cramped and tight with strain. The muscles in his wings ache in pain as they’re folded underneath his uniform shirt, but the sensation of a new place to experience pain is almost intriguing. It’s like finding out he can wiggle his ears or touch his tongue to the tip of his nose, so he can help shifting in little ways that make his brain aware of the wings' presence. He rolls his shoulders but the shirt doesn’t provide any give, so Blaine sighs and pops two aspirin. 

He decides that he needs to find Wes as soon as he can and counts himself lucky that his classes have a late start this morning. He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and the strap snags on his wings, causing pain to shoot up his spine. Blaine gasps loudly before adjusting the strap until it settles firmly between his wings. When the pain lessens to a dull ache, Blaine sighs with relief and his wings shake themselves underneath his clothing before he finally heads out on the hunt.

Wes isn’t in any of his normal morning haunts -- not the library, the cafeteria, or the study room -- and Blaine almost gives up before he sees a light peeking out from under the door of the music room. He pushes open the unlocked doors and spies Wes trailing his fingertips lightly over the keys of the old grand piano. Wes wiggles his fingers over a few keys; the middle C is a little sharp but otherwise its sound is still perfect. 

It's impossible for Blaine to keep his eyes from landing on Wes’ back, lingering over the plain navy back of his blazer without a feather in sight. Somehow, seeing Wes without a pair of wings between his shoulders just makes the truth of what's happened more real. He knew theoretically that they would be missing, but it’s still bizarre seeing it in person. It’s like the Wes that stands before him is a stranger to him without the wings; they were a part of Wes, Blaine realizes, in a way that he's only beginning to appreciate for himself. He shifts his shoulders subtly, trying to feel the shape of his wings without bringing attention to them. He wants to make sure they're still there -- that this isn't just a dream -- but he doesn't want to make Wes feel bad about not having them anymore by pointing out the exchange of power that’s occurred between them. 

Wes looks up from the piano and smiles a bit sadly. Blaine doesn't think he's ever imagined Wes seeming so small, so fragile, so _normal_ before but he does here. His body looks even more slender without the broadening effect of his wings, and suddenly Blaine wants to take back everything -- to give back the wings and the solo and everything so that the status quo can be returned to normal. Maybe Wes understands what he's feeling. He must, Blaine thinks, because the piano bench scrapes across the floor, the sound echoing through the nearly-empty rehearsal space. Wes stands up, squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest. That's all it takes, really, for Wes to reassert himself.

“I see you took the surprise better than I did,” Wes says, eyes focused on the twitching fabric over Blaine’s shoulders. Blaine tenses when Wes steps forward to smooth out the fabric over his arms but settles again when Wes tuts at him. “I woke up the entire dormitory when I caught my reflection in the mirror. David nearly strangled me.”

“I would have liked some warning,” Blaine mumbles, shrugging his shoulders to relieve some tension. He's still tired from a rough night of sleep but there's excitement thrumming under his skin. He can't keep himself from smiling some. "Does this mean what I think it means?"

When Wes' initial response is just a lighthearted hum, Blaine knows that this is all very, very real. His mind seems to skitter to a halt and speed up all at once. This is actually happening.

“A ‘congratulations’ is in order,” Wes confirms at last, and Blaine feels sick to his stomach as adrenaline courses through his veins. "Undoubtedly, the rest of the school will know by lunch but the council will want to present you to the Warblers officially this afternoon."

“I don’t deserve this,” Blaine says meekly before he can stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. He looks down at his feet, suddenly interested in the scuff marks on the wooden floor.

“That,” Wes says, “is one of the reasons why you got it.”

“What?”

“Blaine, I wanted the wings to go, not to someone who wants them, but to someone who _needs_ them. Leading the Warblers may be a job but it’s also a safe space. A place to feel love and acceptance." Wes looks at him, carefully assessing, before continuing. "You're not like the other students here, Blaine. You transferred under dubious circumstances, and while I won’t rehash what those painful experiences for you must have been like, I think you’re one of the very few here who needs something like this."

Blaine colors brightly, embarrassed at the conclusion Wes has arrived at. 

“Look me in the eyes, Blaine, and tell me you don’t want it.”

Blaine opens his mouth but the words seem stuck in his throat. He can’t bring himself to say it. Love and acceptance -- he hasn’t truly felt those things in a long time. Just thinking about it fills him with warm, happy feelings. Wes grins, a hint of smugness playing across his lips as he clasps Blaine's arms, and Blaine feels the wings jerk between his shoulders.

“Your altered uniform shirts will be sent to you before our next practice,” Wes adds, breaking the heavy silence and Blaine chuckles.

“I thought I was going to have to cut holes in the blazer myself.”

“Certainly not,” Wes starts, scandalized. “The Warblers haven’t allowed personal uniform modifications since 1976, when two Warblers tie-dyed the uniform shirts hot pink and turned the standard issue, charcoal-grey pants into bell-bottoms.”

Blaine laughs at Wes’ joke but it dies off abruptly when Wes’ face remains blank, a slight frown turning down the corners of his mouth.

“I’m serious, Blaine. There is nothing funny about the Dalton Academy uniform.”

*

The next few weeks fly by quickly in a blaze of feathers and sheet music. 

Blaine’s transition to lead Warbler goes smoothly and without complaint. Beforehand, he automatically assumed the reaction will be similar to a military coup, but when he's introduced to the Warblers with his wings tight against his body from nerves, all Blaine receives are encouraging looks and a round of applause before sheet music is handed out for rehearsal. 

His first rehearsal is a little shaky, which is normal for learning a new song, and he's stuck as the centerpiece of their circle while Wes shifts to a spot behind Blaine's shoulder. It takes a few false starts before they begin to sound any good. Blaine listens to their voices meld together but something always sounds a little off -- _wrong_. He knows that everyone senses it, just by seeing their faces as he looks around, but he doesn't know what to do about it. Then, thankfully, Wes puts a hand to his shoulder and raises his hand for silence before asking him what he thinks is wrong.

Blaine falters through his explanation of what he thinks he hears, afraid of being wrong and the Warblers hating him for it, and Wes steps back into the group again when Blaine is done. Ultimately, though, everyone makes the appropriate adjustments in their performance and the vocals finally lock into place each time they go through that pattern.

Only when they're nearing the end of practice, when Blaine seamlessly picks up the melody for _Why Do Fools Fall In Love_ while the Warblers' voices rise around him, does he realize that his wings have unfurled from where they'd been trembling tightly against his shoulder blades. It’s wonderful and exhilarating, though Blaine still feels like he’s drowning, and as the wings flutter gently, grounding him. Wes hadn’t been kidding when he said that leading the Warblers is a huge responsibility, but while he's slowly taking up the gauntlet that Wes has thrown down, he's relaxing into the role with every passing moment. 

Wes is every bit the mentor that he promised to be -- never coddling him too much so that Blaine will learn and always helping him through the situations in which he's absolutely lost. Blaine is not only grateful for Wes but also the Warblers as a whole who are responsible for the appreciation he feels on any given day. While at first he felt they had only followed him because of Wes, Blaine feels more and more like they want him as their figurehead because of his own abilities. 

Because of the wings, Blaine gets used to sleeping on his stomach without a shirt on. The wings don't get much bigger than when he first got them, thankfully, and he’s gained better control of them in the past couple of weeks, although they still fidget when he least expects it. The new altered uniform helps immensely. No one says anything to him but Blaine is sure that the people sitting behind him in class aren't too happy about the wings beating air during lectures, so he works to keep them in check. It's easier when he learns to hike his shoulders so that the wings pull up toward his ears and settle down flat with the feathers ruffled out. Blaine is pretty sure that he'll get used to having wings eventually but until his mind stops saying _angel_ every time he looks at himself in the mirror, that isn't going to happen any time soon.

Before he knows it, Sectionals arrives, and Blaine is staring up at the charter bus, frozen still on the sidewalk as his legs refuse to move. Blaine feels his wings twitch lightly and splay out over his back. The other Warblers pile on the bus like puppies, pawing each other as they fight over who gets to sit with whom for the two hour trip, but Blaine can’t seem to get his legs to work. The weight of Sectionals presses him down. Even though winning will be a group effort, the others are counting on his voice to be the one that rises above them all. Blaine doesn’t know if he can handle the pressure, though Wes and the council seem to think he’s ready. His flight or fight response kicks in and Blaine briefly contemplates running away from the bus and hiding in his dorm room for the rest of the day.

Wes leans out of the bus to catch his eye. “Hey, are you coming?” Wes asks -- easily, calmly, like he expects nothing less than Blaine stepping forward and joining the rest of the Warblers. 

Blaine nods to some of the boys that are encouraging him and he thinks he knows what it’s like to truly be acknowledged for the first time. His wings flutter happily and he feels as light as air as he heads toward the bus, like he could float away at any moment from all this joy that's filling him up. It's calming and heartening and Blaine finds himself altogether unwilling to let it go without a fight.

With that in mind, he smiles and steps onto the bus.

_They always said that you knew best,_  
But this little bird's fallen out of that nest, now.  
I've got a feeling that it might have been blessed,  
So I've just got to put these wings to test. 


End file.
